Pass me that blanket
by charliethedreamer
Summary: Captain Swan: Random fluff (with a smidge of angst) with Emma and Killian and blankets.


_A/N: Basically, I was having this conversation with my friend about my weird thing with blankets (like, I can't do anything without a blanket. Not watch tv, not sleep, not read) and then that sparked my muse (oops) and...this happened. Fluff with some blankets. _

.

In the past, Emma had always hated furniture shopping. Something about the _home sweet home _embroidered pillows and family size freaking _everything _and _his and hers _towels all furniture stores seemed to be filled to the rim with that made her scrunch up her nose and locate the nearest exit (for obvious reasons).

But now – with him at her side, frown just about adorable as he examines everything he sees – Emma finds herself not in a state of lingering disdain; in fact, she's actually kind of enjoying herself.

Maybe it's because this time – no running, no searching – the apartment she's shopping for isn't just a temporary thing until she gets bored – until she's done with this city and onto the next – it's permanent. It's not a new house – but a new home.

"What else do we need?" Killian asks, following her through the store.

"Uh – we have pillows…bed sets…cutlery – we need blankets."

He hums in response, and when she loads a number of blankets and quilts into his arms – she couldn't decide, not when they all looked so damn _soft _(and when one of them had anchors on it and they've got this sort of _sailor _theme going) – he raises his eyebrows, but doesn't comment.

"I like blankets," she tells him.

.

He's humming as he walks through the door, shutting away the brisk cold as the warmth from the apartment wraps around him, toeing off his shoes and moving over to the living room.

A smile tugs his lips as he spots her – stretched out on the couch, book in hand with a blanket thrown across her – one of several that are constantly _everywhere _– and she hardly even looks up as he pads over to her, shrugging off his coat and sinking into the couch.

His arms come around her middle, fingers scratching lightly at the soft blanket, his head resting against her stomach.

There's a pause – her fingers tangling in his hair, scratching at his scalp and he hums in contentment – and then she shifts slightly, reaching over to the top of the sofa where another blanket has been slung over.

She shakes at it until it unfolds – it's the one with the anchors (he likes that one) – and then covers him with it.

He can't contain his grin – the woman is bloody obsessed, he swears – and thinks that maybe, having given it no prior consideration, he likes blankets too.

.

Henry is angry – beyond annoyed, _seething _as stomps up the stairs to the apartment, hands shivering from all that _waiting in the cold. _They were _meant _to pick him up – they _said _they'd pick up.

He's just stormed through the door – ready to give his mother and Killian a piece of his mind (who says they're going to pick you up and then doesn't show? What sort of _responsible parent_ does that?) – when he sees the two of them, his mother and her boyfriend sprawled out on the couch, her head on his chest, arms wrapped around the middle as they both sleep.

He's trying to convince himself that he should still be angry, that sleep is no excuse (not when he was waiting outside school for a damned twenty minutes) when a contented sigh slips past his mother's lips and really, after seeing her as quietly unhappy for as long as he had, he can't quite find it in himself to be mad after that.

So, rather than gritting his teeth and reprimanding the two of them on _broken promises, _he picks up the blanket that's slung over the armchair, moves over and carefully drapes it over the two of them.

.

He's sick – horribly, annoyingly and _adorably _sick – frowning and pouting and sniffling and sneezing as he looks up at her from where he's lying on the sofa, all self-pity and barked coughs, and she crouches down, pushing back the hair that falls onto his forehead.

"Are you going to be alright?" she asks, looking over her shoulder to where Henry waits by the door.

"No," he grumbles. "Well – maybe when I'm dead."

A chuckle slips past her lips – melodramatic pirate that he is – but then he looks at her, practically _glares, _and she sobers.

"Sorry," she says, pressing a kiss to his forehead. She takes the blanket that's been tossed onto the floor and drapes it over him, making sure the prescribed medicine and a glass of water are within his reach.

He's asleep before Emma and Henry are even out the house.

.

It's at _that _time of year and _that _time of day – fourth of July and the town has only just stop humming with it all – where the sky is an inky black, the stars pinpricks of light shining through and although it's late at night – or very early at morning – it's not cold at all, just a warm summer breeze that makes the blue curtains sway gently.

Her legs are dangling out of the large sash window (the one which opens fully in a way she just _loves)_, hands picking lightly at the cushion that runs down the length of the window seat.

She can hear the creaking of wood from below and beyond the apartment block as she sees the silhouettes of running teenagers, jogging down to the docks and along to the end of where the boats rock sleepily.

She can just about hear their muffled talk (their apartment _is_ close to the docks, after all) – all excited voices that carry through the night – and she has time to make out the strike of a match and the sounds of them retreating a before there's a loud _bang _and the sky is lit up with the bursting of a series of fireworks.

There's a fleeting second where she wants to interfere – minors setting off fireworks, that _does _sound like something the sheriff would look into – but when more fireworks grace the sky, bright and celebratory and just _beautiful, _she decides it's probably ok.

She feels the weight of the cushion beside her shift, feels a warm presence at her side as Killian joins her, his legs swinging over the ledge to dangle beside hers.

"Are they allowed to be doing that?" he questions lightly as the echoes of the kids' shrieked delight reach them.

"Not really."

"Are you going to stop them?"

"Nope."

"Good," he smiles, reaching down and tangling her fingers with his.

She brings their entwined hands to her lips, and reaches over, dragging the blanket that's always tossed over the window seat over their laps, letting their hands fall to rest on top of it.

.

When he gets back into the apartment – eyes red and his heart _aches _and he can't even remember what the argument was about, only knows it was something stupid (_stupid_) and irrelevant because _her, she's _the only thing that's relevant – she's sprawled across the window seat, head rested on her crossed elbows, soft snores audible in the stuttering silence of the apartment, empty wine glass perched on the floor.

He moves over, carefully dislodging the quilt from where it's trapped beneath her legs – god, she's like a dead weight when she's asleep – and dragging it up and over her shoulders.

He sighs – heavy and shaky and he hates it when they argue, a rare occurrence that stings – and drags himself into the bedroom, musing he ought to let her sleep.

(It's early in the morning when he hears the door creaking, when he hears her feet against the wood of their bedroom, when he feels the mattress dip with her weight. She slips under the covers, cold toes brushing against the backs of his calves.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, hand sliding up his biceps and resting at his shoulder. He shakes his head – _no, I'm sorry_ – reaching back and tugging her arm around his waist. Her lips are soft as they press against the back of his neck, her hands gentle as they scratch at the hair on his lower stomach.)

(The argument no longer matters. No, the only thing that matters – and matters more than the sun or the moon or the stars – is _her.)_

.

She's having one of those _days _– everything just a bit too much with her _family _and _Regina _and this _town _and _everything _– and she's sitting on the beach, ocean creeping closer and closer as the tide draws in, hands clenching and un-clenching in the sand, dusk swooping over as the sun disappears behind the glistening horizon.

He shows up then – smile understanding, grannie's takeout bag in one hand, a bundle of blankets under his arm – and sits down next to her, handing her a blanket and a to-go hot chocolate (a smile quirks her lips because _really _he knows her too well) and they stay there – random tales told in a lilting accent, toes brushing, hands tangled, blankets thrown over them and under them – listening to the waves and watching the stars until she's ready to go back home.

.

Her hands are curled over the kitchen counter, eyes open and trained on the granite surface (because whenever she closes her eyes – even for a second – the nightmare returns, just as fast and choking and _when will they stop_).

She inhales deeply – although somewhat shakily – willing herself to just _be strong. _

If was ever able to do so – blinking back tears, gritting her teeth – it's a chance lost as there's a presence next to her, when the comforter from the bed is being wrapped around her and when she's being turned and pulled into his embrace.

She lets her head fall into the crook of his neck, lets his hand run through her hair in a comforting gesture, and then lets the tears fall.

She doesn't know how much time passes before he's guiding her back to bed – maybe five minutes, maybe more – only knows that the blanket is soft and his lips are comforting and this time, when she lets her eyes slip just, she doesn't see blood and anguish and pain.

She just sees blue eyes and crooked smiles and _him._

.

The fires are gone by the time Killian finds her – snuffed out by David and other members of the town working as firefighters – but the smoke remains, swirling above the recently battle-torn town, rising upwards and disappearing into the oranges and pinks of the late afternoon sky.

She's sitting in the open ambulance, legs dangling over the edge, toes almost touching the road as she looks out onto the town.

The nurse finishes cleaning her wound – nothing serious, just a gash to her shoulder – smoothing a bandage over it before moving out of the ambulance to attend to others who've been hurt.

He doesn't say anything as he sits down beside her – there isn't really much to be said, another battle came and gone and (thankfully) won (but not without its casualties) – just drapes a warm blanket over her shoulders.

She smiles weakly, ducking her head as tears of exhaustion slip out from beneath her lids and his arm comes around her, holding her close as her hands curl around the quilt.

"We'll be alright," he murmurs and she nods, shutting her eyes and letting her head fall onto his shoulder.

He doesn't say anything further, and he doesn't need to. She just needs his arm around her waist and the blanket over her shoulders and his lips to her temple and she believes him – knows yes, they will be alright.

("We'll always be alright, Swan, you and me. Always.")

.

_A/N: __No blankets were harmed in the writing of this fic. Review? _


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